Well, that didn’t take long.
It’s awfully hard not to get hungry when a parade of friends brings you lasagna and casseroles and enchiladas and Café Fresh bagels with lox and Taza chocolate and my first CSA pickup of the season from Waltham Fields and a quart of fresh-picked strawberries from Drumlin Farm and cookies and cupcakes and fruit smoothies and banana bread and, oh my god, I’m not allowed to joke about having no friends ever again. Also, going forward, it will be harder to disrespect Husband, the best nursemaid the world has ever seen, but I’m sure I’ll figure out a way.
The surgery was a “success,” as they say. My reaction to the battle scars was an odd mix of horror and relief. Apparently, my healthy lifestyle enabled the tumor to achieve quite a robust size. You’re welcome, you fucker. Since fleeing the hospital, I’ve been spending my days ambling about in Percocet-induced partial numbness, which has been exacerbated by the eerie quiet of the children being well-taken-care-of far away on the Cape. It’s a very strange space I’ve been occupying these days where I can sleep ‘til noon and read vampire books on the porch for hours, admiring my pretty feet because my best friend came to the hospital and painted my toenails to give an ounce of credence to the idea of Spa Day. My only immediate concern has been whether or not my intestines ever plan on waking up from the anesthesia. Is this guilt I’m feeling? Or just constipation?
Anyway, the kids are back and the quiet is over but the parade of food continues. I may do a few posts on the stuff people are bringing me. I wonder how long I can milk this?